


Deja Vu

by 912luvjaxlean



Category: Miss Fisher's Murder Mysteries
Genre: Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-26 01:33:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15653043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/912luvjaxlean/pseuds/912luvjaxlean
Summary: Phryne recalls New Year's Eve 1920 when three women danced.





	Deja Vu

I haven’t taken anything seriously since 1918.

And the war, to end all wars. Friends lost and hope gone. The realization that my generation would never be the same. So let’s celebrate! It’s New Year’s Eve and 1920! A new decade. A new life. Let the champagne flow! Libations and Liberation! Phryne bobbed her hair.

Long waves and hairpins stuck into my scalp. Tight braids when I was a child until I took scissors and cut it myself. Before the hair maiming, Aunt Prudence would make sure my braids were secure and tightly woven. (My father said she was tight with her money, too. But, he would be tight when he said it. So what did I know? And what to believe?) Who can you believe?

Here now in gay Paree, my two Sapphic Sisters took charge of me. They pierced my ears that night and said it was just another way to lose your virginity. (Well, that was lost years ago to that stable hand who worked at Aunt P’s. He was tall and slender, a pretty boy, with dark auburn hair, that often had a mind of its own---one long strand would often escape his cap and fall onto his forehead. His eyes were deep set and a blue that looked brown or black depending on his mood. His hands were large and strong, he knew how to handle a mount. Where is he now, I wonder? Another casualty of war?) So, rouge your knees and kick up your heels. And dance!

And dance we did. We wore colorful gowns that plunged quite low. Lena wore blue and when she moved the bodice would slip and you might see a taste of cherry nipple. How we laughed and made all the women jealous and green with envy. As we only danced with each other, even though all those sad little men tried to cut in. Cara wore pink. (Cara mia mine, dead the next year of a botched abortion. Our darling, our sweetheart, our love. Younger than either Lena or Phryne. Like a little sister, our doll.) And Phryne?

Phryne wore a yellow dress. And she hated yellow. Yet, not this color because it was not so yellow as gold or yellow with an olive cast. Not sun yellow, or a day color, but something like a secret. Something like being a woman and wanting men. Yet, responding to a woman’s touch. And while a man would often offer the pretense of romance and would say stupid loverly things that often made me want to laugh outloud. Oh, you know. Things like:

“I must have you. I am dying for you.” (Oh, dear a terminal attraction I would think.) “You are more beautiful than the moon.  (Well, I would hope so, as the moon is untouchable and seems to be pockmarked, I would say to myself.) “Your eyes are like diamonds.” (Truly? Why not give me one that my eyes might look upon? I would want to say.)

Lovers looking for the entre as it were to the entrance of your delicate female parts. It was laughable at times how predictable these men were. They would say something they read in a book once, nibble on me, soul kiss me, if I was in the mood, and then start manhandling me. Now, I am not saying that being manhandled doesn’t have its appeal. But, there seemed to be a routine to it all. A practiced art that all men or most men seemed to know. They all seemed to have just the one goal: possession.

So, the yellow dress I wore was for Freedom and Liberation. Viva La France! Viva la Bob! Viva the secret ways of my new sweet sisters. How we danced and laughed as though there was no tomorrow. And, no past. (The past being shadows and loss and need. Fractures and lost family. My dear little sister, Janey, gone. Taken from me. I lost her. But, not in that sad and sighing euphemistic way of describing death; but literally, I had charge of her and she disappeared. Never to be seen again.}

Keep dancing, keep dancing! Pour more champagne! The Lord of the Dance reigns! The Queen of Pierced Ears and Newly Bobbed Hair. How my ears throbbed. (I was glad I wore those small gold hoops that were light in weight. Lena refused to let me wear the dangly ones and how we fought over it. And, Cara cried, she hated upsets. And, then Lena and I made up and kissed and kissed. And, Cara was happy again and laughed, so girlish and so sweet. And, she was.) The pulsing rhythm. The music loud and hot. The Lord of the Revels has returned to us! I needed a hat to finish the look, so I took one right from a man’s head

I stole Pompy’ green bowler. It was much worn and much loved. Just like dear Pompy, our landlord and friend. He was slow to move and seemed quite old, though perhaps only because we were so young then. He chased me and I let him catch me in the alcove behind the bar. I let him have a few feels to thank him for the hat. (He knew how to please a woman, I must say. I pretended to struggle in his arms and he grabbed as much has he could reach. He knew not the neglect the derriere, most men rub your buns and want only to be in possession of your own secret place. But, Pompy knew to grab each globe and hold and pull apart and squeeze and knead. I quite forgot about the hat for awhile. And when he took me with his hand, it was with a firm and knowing grip right in front. And, while the others where cat-calling and laughing and wanting to know if he’d ‘given me his hat yet’, he secured me with an experienced hand that knew just where the pressure should be. And, I came. Hard and fast and wonderfully. I wondered if I was a Sapphic, after all?}

“You are not wearing of ze knickairs,” he said. “No, no. You must trade me them for my hat.” So I did. I slipped out of them and handed them over. He acted as though they were a great gift, he rolled them tightly in his hands and brought them to his nose.  He smiled at me and said I might wear his hat. And, he would make me a boutonniere. And, he did. Right from the green lace trim of my knickers! (How we laughed when he pinned it on. What meaning it had, somehow silly and yet sincere. As though now, it was something serious between us.) And, he hummed some measures from The Blue Danube has he waltzed me about the room.

And, so we left for the parties and the bistros and the bars with me wearing my knickers over my heart. Montmartre all ablaze with a frenzied joy. War’s end.  A new year. How we danced and danced. We moved as fast as we could far far away from all the loss. Laughing, loud, careless, boisterous, adventurous, never ever to take things seriously again.

Never. Ever. Not since 1918. (Until a serious man waltzed me. Years later. I was mindful of my pretty boy with auburn hair and Pompy’s knowing hand.)

Oh, my pretty boy, my serious man, who pinned a swallowtail brooch upon my bodice. Déjà vu.

 


End file.
